


you're all gonna watch me disappear into the sun

by dykeacademia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eating Disorders, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Oikawa Tooru's Knee Injury, POV Oikawa Tooru, POV Third Person, Recovery, Trans Oikawa Tooru, angst in the loosest sense of te word, he is HEALING and GROWING, hesitant to tag this as angst bc it's. not, it's just the lack of communication xx, iwaizumi is trying but uh. does not exactly work out, look they're in love but they're also idiots, probably during the first or second season, recovery isnt fucking linear but goddamn if he isnt trying, this is set vaguely in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28688076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeacademia/pseuds/dykeacademia
Summary: iwaizumi's trying, he really is. but oikawa tooru isn't something anyone can fully understand.a look at oikawa's life through the lens of being trans and having an eating disorder.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kuroo Tetsurou & Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





	you're all gonna watch me disappear into the sun

**Author's Note:**

> so this is definitely a personal fic for me? i've dealt with disordered eating for a while, and i thought channeling that into writing might be helpful, both for me and for others. this isn't written just for angst purposes or to focus on his disordered behavior (although it is described in parts of the work). it's set during his recovery, when he's still struggling but not at rock bottom. i'm trying to write this with "recovery isn't linear, and there will be setbacks, but you still can keep moving forward" as a theme, not just to ""torture"" him (looking @ you whump writers). but that being said, if you are also struggling with an eating disorder, this fic is likely going to be triggering and i'd recommend steering clear. please take care of yourselves, and stay safe. <3
> 
> also!! oikawa being trans was definitely something i had in mind while writing this, and it's certainly referenced, but never explicitly stated. so it's not just about him being trans, but his transness does play into his body image & body issues, as well as his general understanding and perception of himself. (as a trans person with an ed, the two things do impact each other incredibly.)
> 
> title from "liability" by lorde.

oikawa tooru didn't know what control felt like.  _ feels _ like. he’s been a boy drowning, barely keeping his head above water, since he was seven and the world became real. something clicked, something shifted, and all the terrors of life came just a little too close for comfort. oikawa was seven, and everything was wrong, and he was real. but being real and knowing what that means are two different things.

oikawa didn't  _ feel _ real. everything about him was faked and imitated. expertly painted and carved, a work of art that you swore moved when you turned your back. lifelike enough to fool the masses, but he crumpled under deep examination. he was only a puppet with broken vocal cords, a marionette with skin instead of fabric, and someone else was holding the strings. he wasn't a real boy, no matter how hard he tried. he wasn't a real  _ anything _ . just a fraud, and a poor one, at that.

a real boy didn't look like tooru. he knew that.

and no matter what he did, he would never be like everyone else. because no matter how good his sets were, no matter how fast he ran or how well he blocked, someone else would always outpace him, have more skill and more talent. oikawa could train for hours, and someone like  _ tobio _ could send off a set with more strength than he could dream of, just like that. like it was nothing.

he told himself it didn't matter. he kept on training.

(it did matter.)

training was hard, and it hurt, but what good thing came without a little pain? and besides, the pain was a reminder. with every stretch and reach and jump and set, he was learning. every time he tore apart his body and let it piece itself together, he was getting stronger. getting better. getting closer to where he should've been. where everyone else always was. he continually felt as if he were falling behind, lagging and letting them all down. he was drowning, and he was dragging them all down with him.

(iwaizumi said that wasn't true. oikawa knew better.)

he trained, and he trained, and he kept going, even when his entire body felt like it would shatter and his nervous system was set ablaze. he kept working, even when he was about to fall asleep on the court and iwaizumi had to drive him home. he didn't want to stop. he couldn't stop. he promised himself those statements could coexist.

he got injured, and suddenly none of that mattered.

it was the stupidest thing. a torn ACL, because he landed badly after a set. he was tired, and he was sore, and he made a mistake. but he didn't make mistakes. he was better than that. or he should've been. he should've been more careful, should've done better, should've  _ been _ better. all it took was one bad day and he was benched for six fucking months. six months of recovery, of surgery and physical therapy. of watching tapes of games until three in the morning, eyes aching, but he couldn't stop. he couldn't let himself lose all the progress he'd made. he couldn't.

and that's when it all started.

oikawa had never had a good relationship with food. it was a fun thing, yes, childish fingers sticky with custard and cream, smiles crusted with fruit juice and crushed ice. but he put himself on a strict diet when he started volleyball. he needed to take care of his body, after all. he couldn't let all his exercise go to waste if he crammed his face full of sweets when he got home. and so what, if eating something unhealthy made him feel bad? he should feel bad, honestly. he needed to stay in shape. he couldn't deviate from his path. 

so he kept track of what he ate. how much, how little, what kinds and when. he started memorizing nutrition information, storing it right alongside the weaknesses of other volleyball teams and what he needed to work on in practice. it was just another tool for his success. he counted calories, sure, but that was just to keep him on track, to keep him accountable. he needed to stay healthy. other athletes did it too, it wasn't unusual. it wasn't a problem.

then he couldn't play for six months, and it became a problem. 

he didn't feel like he deserved it. to eat. what had he done? lying on his ass and daydreaming about victory wasn't a sport. math homework wasn't exercise. he was barely doing anything, and he needed to stay in shape. so he focused all of it— the fear, the panic, the pain, the worry, the impatience— on his diet. he counted calories to the decimals, tracked vitamin levels, rounded up with every bite. fifty-four calories was basically sixty, and he probably had poured too big a serving, so call it a hundred to be safe, and, oh— he added cinnamon, too, and some nuts, add a few more calories, and suddenly he'd had a bowl of applesauce and hit his daily limit. eating food felt like a weakness, a concession. that he was broken, lesser than. that he was doing it all wrong. 

hunger made him feel real, and he clung to the feeling like a lifeline.

the day he could play finally came, and he tried to bury all the panic and all the numbers somewhere in his empty stomach. he could practice again, and his knee was still fragile, but it held, and everything was okay again. he could work out, so he didn't need to feel like vomiting when he saw carbohydrates. and he managed, for a while. but soon it all came back.

he was practicing thirty hours a week, and he was skipping meals left and right, and he was fine. he was fucking  _ fine _ . he just had to work hard, and keep working, and he could claw and scrape and grab and finally make it to somewhere that would matter. to make something of himself. he'd finally be good enough, and people would notice him for the right reasons, and he'd feel real again. his body was hollow and battered and it was the most alive he'd felt in years.

he passed out on the court, and suddenly he didn't feel anything.

he brushed the coaches off with a flimsy excuse about sleeplessness and overworking, and they bought it. iwaizumi didn't. suddenly he was there, all the time, curled up against oikawa’s shoulder like some annoying hairless sloth. it was sweet, but he felt like he'd choke on all the attention being shoved down his throat. hajime wouldn't take no for an answer, and sometimes that was good. sometimes that's what oikawa needed. but sometimes, looking at a banana made him feel like he was caught in ocean waves, trapped in the tide, and he needed iwaizumi to  _ not _ .

but he was there. he was there, and he tried, but he just didn't understand. oikawa wished he couldn't, either.  _ but he was there. _ and that was enough.

he could've done without treating  _ it _ — his eating disorder, he'd tried calling it, because you can't be scared of something if you're numb to the word, or so he'd hoped— like a personal attack on iwaizumi, however.

because things had been getting bad again, and they were both out of their depth. but tooru was used to water in his lungs, while hajime had clearly grown too comfortable on solid ground. because now, everything was cracked and shaking, and iwaizumi kept talking, and oikawa was about to shove a fist through the wall.

a heavy sigh dragged him back to the conversation at hand. “you realize you can't keep going like this.” hajime was saying, his voice tired and sharp in a tone oikawa knew all too well.

he rolled his eyes, a myriad of irritation and disgust curling his lip.“leave me alone. i don't need your misplaced pity and i  _ certainly _ don't need you to fret over me like i'm fragile.”

“oh, i'm sorry, i'd prefer my boyfriend to stay out of the hospital for the next couple of weeks, if that's okay,” iwaizumi shot back.

something sharp caught in his chest, a thing with blades that stung and ached. “go to hell.” 

“are you allergic to taking care of yourself? genuinely, that's the only answer at this point, because i  _ know _ you don't want to die before we win spring nationals. so what the  _ fuck _ is your issue, huh? why can’t you get your head out of your ass and realize that not everything is just about  _ you _ ?”

his words were a weapon, slicing through arteries and ventricles and hitting bone. tooru felt the blood soak into his shirt.

iwaizumi’s face crumpled, soft, as if everything holding him up finally let him go, and he just looked so  _ tired _ . the anger curled off of his shoulders in acrid wisps and smoky trails. all that was left was a bleak expression and trembling hands that he pretended not to see.

“i'm sorry, i didn't mean that,” he said, his voice hollow and the closest thing to nervous oikawa had ever heard him reach for. “i'm just…  _ fuck _ . i'm scared. i'm terrified for you, tooru.”

the words tore out of him before he could stop himself. “and you think i'm  _ not _ ?”

“you think i'm in control here? that i'm not scared too? fuck you, hajime,” he spat, the taste of acid familiar as it curdled on his teeth.

he left, and he didn't look back, and then he was driving, and he didn't know where he was going. just that he  _ was _ , and he was leaving, and he couldn't breathe, and the fact that he'd gotten into the biggest fight with his boyfriend that they’d ever had wouldn't stop spinning in his head. 

he felt sick. his head hurt. he couldn't think.

he called kuroo.

he called kuroo, and he picked up on the third ring, and didn't say anything, just waited calmly on the line for oikawa to speak. he didn't want to. but he did anyway

“can we get coffee?” tooru asked, voice carved raw, a scraped and bloody thing. he didn't trust himself to talk to anyone else. but he knew tetsurou wouldn't comment on it. 

thankfully, he didn't even pause. “sure. same place?”

oikawa hummed in agreement.

“be there in ten,” kuroo answered, and ended the call.

and then the car was quiet. too quiet. it was oikawa, and just him. no one there to disperse the heavy cloud of panic that swirled around his collarbones. he was thinking, again.

(iwaizumi would've made a joke about that, something about how he should try thinking for a change and see if it suited him. but iwaizumi wasn't here. iwaizumi wasn't here, and he wouldn't be, because oikawa had fought with him and ruined everything. he'd scorched his bridges and razed the earth around them. he had destroyed everything good in his life, just like he always had, and this was what he fucking deserved. he always did this. why couldn't he just let things be  _ good? _

another part of himself argued back, and said that hajime was being a piece of shit and he was right to be angry. he let the two spar in his head, a furious waltz, until he was dizzy, and nothing was quiet anymore.)

he pulled up to the cafe. he got out of the car. he didn't remember driving there. everything was a haze.

he walked inside.

kuroo was waiting for him, at one of the small tables, two drinks in hand. oikawa knew what was inside, already. a caramel mocha for kuroo, and a black coffee for him, what he always ordered.

god, he fucking hated coffee.

his stomach churned and he took the drink, hands wrapped around the warm cup as he followed oikawa to their usual spot. it was a secluded table near the back of the cafe, and the employees always seemed to save it for them. a small kindness, but one that was appreciated. kuroo ranting about his parents was not something that the general public needed to be subjected to.

and oikawa, of course, had his menagerie of miseries.

“so,” kuroo said, cutting through oikawa’s monologuing, “what's up?”

he snorted. “you can't just say ‘what’s up’. we’re not thirteen.”

kuroo took a long sip of his drink. “you don't seem to have gotten the memo,” he pointed out drily.

“hey!” tooru complained. “that was a low blow.”

he shrugged. “get on with it, loverboy, or i'm going home. i had to wake kenma up for this, you know. we were watching one of his drag shows, and he fell asleep on me— shit, it was so cute, and—”

tooru groaned. “we get it, your boyfriend is an angel and you're so in love you could die.”

“i mean, you're not too far off.”

“eat shit and die,” he shot back.

“i'll get my keys, then.”

“okay, okay, sit back down,” he grumbled, earning a snarky grin from his friend. “let me talk, okay? then you can gush about your boyfriend.”

kuroo nodded, slipping the smile off his face and trading it in for his normal expression, cool and neutral. it was a strange thing to think, but it was somehow soothing. that nothing oikawa could say would be shocking or wrong. it was… nice.

“fuck, okay, where do i start?”

he grimaced, slightly. the words were on the tip of his tongue, and he just needed to spit them out. they were charred and burnt against his teeth and filled his mouth with ash. it tasted like defeat. he spoke.

“you know i've been getting bad again. with uh, with eating.”

kuroo just nodded. not a judgement, just an acknowledgment of the facts. it steadied tooru, and he kept going.

“well, iwaizumi noticed, because of fucking course he did, and he started being a dick about it. it's almost like… like he thinks i'm doing it just to hurt myself. just to hurt  _ him _ . like i chose this, and i keep choosing it. he thinks i  _ want _ this, that i don't feel like i'm— like i don't feel like i'm fucking drowning, and i don't have control over anything, and— fuck. i know this is hard on him, to watch me do this. but it's like he doesn't notice that this is hard on me, too. or just… doesn't care.”

tetsurou’s eyes were cool as always. they didn't flash or harden or flicker like hajime’s. he accepted oikawa’s words, and didn't respond. he just listened.

after he took a long break and buried his nose in the steam of his drink, and it was clear he was finished, kuroo finally spoke.

“well, he's being a dick,” he said frankly.

oikawa rolled his eyes and nodded.

“but, it's not like what he's saying is wrong. this  _ is _ scary for him. he doesn't know what it's like, and all he sees is the boy he loves— don't fucking interrupt, tooru— the boy he loves on a one way road to self destruction. he wants to help you, but he doesn't know how. and normally, yelling and arguing is what worked. it doesn't, not for something like this. but he doesn't know that. he's trying, and you're trying, but you're both so concerned with yourselves that you can't see each other.”

“i fucking hate it when you're right.”

tetsurou rolled his eyes. “can i finish?”

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” he grumbled.

“you two need to cool down, and actually communicate for once. talk to him about how you feel, for the love of god. explain what it's like for you, to be dealing with an eating disorder. explain why the approach he's using isn't working, and what he can do instead. and listen when he explains why he's worried, and understand that even if it came out wrong, like, so fucking wrong, he  _ is _ still trying to help.”

he groaned. “how are you so level-headed all the damn time? it's so not fair.”

“be as enchantingly sexy as me, and maybe you'll have a shot,” kuroo teased.

he wrinkled his nose. “you're disgusting.”

“i'm also paying for your drink.”

“my dearest apologies, to the man i love the most, the most handsome and—”

“oh, quit it. you're horrible at flattery.”

“i am  _ not _ —”

tetsurou snorted. “whatever. get out of my sight, tooru.” 

“hey! that's mean.”

“oh, assuredly.”

“i hate you,” oikawa complained, grabbing his coffee and following kuroo out of the shop.

“really?”

“shut up.”

“great to see you too,” he mocked.

tooru just rolled his eyes and headed for his car. then he paused.

“thank you,” he muttered, the words almost bitter in his mouth. “i… appreciate it.”

“you're going soft, shithead!” kuroo called out in return.

“fuck you.”

the grinding of the gears as tetsurou pulled out of the lot was response enough.

oikawa slipped into his own car, hands steadier on the wheel than they'd been all day, and took a deep breath. it rattled in his chest, a malformed and ugly thing. the coffee was dirt in his throat and it clung to his teeth like a promise. fuck.

he called iwaizumi.

the line was silent.

“hey,” hajime offered, more hesitant than oikawa had ever heard him. it made him feel sick.

“hey.”

the moment hung in the air, ash and smoke and smoldering embers clouding the space between them. 

“i'm sorry,” iwaizumi burst out. “can… should we talk?”

he allowed himself a small smile. “that's why i called you, asshole.”

“shut up.”

the bite was familiar, comforting. finally, he wasn't being touched with kid gloves.

“i'll be at the gym. meet me there,” he tossed back, making his voice as airy as he could.

“see ya,” iwaizumi answered, and hung up. oikawa pretended it didn't sting.

the drive to aoba johsai was quiet. it was the dangerous kind, he decided. it was the kind of quiet with tapping fingernails and bitten, bloody lips. it was the kind of quiet that oikawa felt that he had to fill, some endless void trying to swallow him whole. it made him feel unsteady, off balance. it made him nervous. and he didn't  _ get _ nervous.

(iwaizumi said that wasn't healthy. oikawa told him that he was fine. one of them was probably right.)

the drive was over far too quickly, and he found himself standing in the gym across from iwaizumi. they both stared at eachother for a moment, before the other boy spoke, words chosen oh-so carefully.

“i didn’t mean what i said earlier—”

oikawa cut him off. “yes, you did.”

hajime blinked.

he continued, voice cool and calm. “you did mean what you said. don't back off just because it's not easy.” 

“fine,” iwaizumi snapped, his voice rising as he spoke. “i did mean it. i'm sorry for how i said it, but not for what i said. i'm worried about you, you idiot, and if it's not clear, i don't know what the fuck i'm doing!”

oikawa chuckled, a sharp and painful sound. “neither do i.”

“what do you—”

“iwa-chan, i know how to play volleyball. i know how to do well in school. i know how to tease girls and flirt with boys. but i don't have a fucking  _ clue _ what i'm doing when it comes to myself. and that's the whole point. it's all about control. i don't have control over anything but myself, and that's the problem. everything that's— that's fucking wrong with me, it's because i feel out of control. and you lashing out at me like that, isn't exactly helpful.”

he took a deep breath, looked everywhere but at iwaizumi’s face. the raw panic was abating, but it was still clenched in his fingertips and clamping down on his stomach.

“i know you care, and you're just trying to help. i get that. but i'm going to have setbacks, and i'm going to have bad days. you can't take my eating disorder as a personal assault on you and the team. i'm doing my best. but i need your  _ support _ , not your arguments and your personal view of what my recovery should look like. got it?”

his chest was heaving just slightly, enough to feel it as something (anger? frustration? adrenaline?) rushed through his body. he waited for hajime to speak. he didn't.

there were arms around him, and iwaizumi’s face was shoved somewhere over his shoulder. “i fucking hate you, you know that?” he muttered. “you're always right, in your fucking stupid roundabout way. goddamnit.”

“i'm sorry for being a dick, and i promise that i do want to help you and support you and not just guilt you into anything. i'll… do research and look things up and figure shit out. i don't want to make things worse, i swear.”

“i know.”

iwaizumi wrapped an arm around oikawa’s shoulders, walking with him back to his car. he was steady, solid. something grounding, when oikawa was nothing but a shifting mass of instability.

“alright, asshat, something tells me your emotional intelligence meter is at negative five after all that. wanna go watch that stupid show you like and eat all my chips?”

“dragula is not  _ stupid _ , you just can't appreciate the artistry behind—”

“i'll never get it, but i'll take that as a yes.”

“um, duh.”

a soft smack followed.

“hey! don't hit me. that's mean, iwa-chan.”

“yeah, yeah.”

“you know, kuroo and kenma like it too, so i think  _ you're _ the one with bad taste.”

“whatever, shittykawa.”

“you really are being an asshole today, huh?”

“what can i say? it's just so fun to mess with you.”

things weren't perfect, and maybe iwaizumi would never fully understand what to do or say. but he was trying. and that's what counted.

they were gonna be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> started lagging towards the end, sorry about that lmao. this fic was pretty long (at least for me) and i have no clue how to write iwaizumi. hopefully you enjoy it though! if you want to leave any, comments do make my day! :")


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